


does it count as dying if he comes back to life?

by watermelons_official



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: As it should be, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Spies & Secret Agents, honestly after homecoming this is all AU, like literally there's no mention of infinity war or endgame, no beta we die like [redacted], they just vanished from existence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watermelons_official/pseuds/watermelons_official
Summary: Peter Parker died at seventeen years old.There was a funeral; there was a burial of an empty casket, and then there was moving on. Michelle is over it, really. It still hurts, because these kind of things never truly stop hurting, but she's moved on. Her life is good, her friends are great, she still keeps in touch with May – everything's going fine.Then Peter Parker comes back from the dead on the seventh anniversary of his own death.Dramatic, much? In any case, Michelle finds herself pulled into the superhero business once again. She just hopes this time it won't end with a dead best friend to bury.





	1. how to fuck things up

**Author's Note:**

> 4/4/2020: bonjour and what's popping. i just completely re-wrote both this chapter and the outline of this fic. i do have an update coming soon but first i'm gonna re-write the rest of the chapters i already have and Then i'll update. au revoir and stay safe my loves!

Michelle Jones is a journalist.

She’s a recognised figure, capable of throwing out questions most would be afraid to ask, to people most would be afraid to face. She’s pretty famous, too, if the constant paparazzi are any indication. She lives in Queens, her small studio being where she spends most of her time when not on the hunt for a story.

Many have wondered why she refuses to move, say, to a bigger apartment (which god knows she can afford). In the end, most chalk it up to be just another one of Ms Jones’ eccentricities, like how she’s never in public without sunglasses, and how she’s never been seen in the same room as Daredevil (just saying).

Very few people know the truth, and even fewer know how it all started. Michelle is perfectly fine with keeping it that way, thank you very much, even if sometimes she does wonder… what could’ve been, or _ would’ve _been, if things hadn’t gone so spectacularly wrong, so ridiculously fast. These musings don’t change how it started, and they don’t change how it ended.

In case you care, it started like this.

* * *

When Michelle Jones was eight years old, she met a boy. When the teacher stood him up, told him to say his name and one fun fact about himself, he said he was called Peter Parker.

Michelle didn’t pay attention to him (she didn’t pay attention to anyone, really), she didn’t think he was worth her time, but she did learn that his favourite movie was _ The Force Awakens. _

She caught his eye at one point, from her seat across the room from him. He smiled, small and hesitant, but _ bright, _ somehow. She doesn’t remember if she smiled back.

Later, during recess, when she was hiding in an empty classroom, drawing, Michelle overheard a conversation. Years and years later, sitting quietly during Peter Parker’s funeral, she would think back to that moment.

“And his parents?” Mrs Jonah was saying.

Michelle abandoned both her drawing and her desk, in order to press her ear against the closed classroom door. Her parents had told her that she shouldn’t eavesdrop, after she had listened in to a hushed argument about her dad’s brother, how he’d flirt with her mom every Christmas spent together, but Michelle had never been one for following rules.

“Mary and Richard Parker. Both dead,” Ms Wilson replied, matter-of-factly. “You met them once, remember? Back in 2004?”

“Oh!” Mrs Jonah snapped her fingers as if she had just remembered something. “That was them? The two with the blue retro car, yes?”

Ms Wilson didn’t say anything, but judging by Mrs Jonah’s small gasp, Michelle imagined she had nodded.

“That poor boy,” she heard Mrs Jonah sigh. “So young, and optimistic too! Oh, you should have seen him, Maggie, he was talking with Ned — that’s the Leeds’ boy, and I think they’re friends now, by the way — he was talking with Ned about how cool it would be to live with his aunt and uncle, ’cause they let him have ice cream for dinner.”

Ms Wilson let out a sad laugh as Mrs Jonah continued to talk, but their conversation faded away with their footsteps.

Michelle’s head spun.

_ Peter Parker, _ she thought to herself, _ eight years old, Star Wars fan... _

She went back to her desk, colouring in the lines of her drawing as carefully as she could, the sunflower almost glowing against the sky blue background.

_ Orphan. _

* * *

Michelle Jones has never liked parties.

When she was younger, she went to them anyway, if only to entertain herself looking at the half-drunk teenage boys who thought they were smooth, but after Peter... she just didn’t see the point.

Now, though, parties are an unfortunate, but necessary part of her job. As she zips up her dress and puts on her heels, she wonders how bad tonight is going to go. After all, in these past seven years, the date has only lent itself to disaster, chaos, and other synonyms for things going wrong.

She truly doesn’t know how Stark can bring himself to throw a party on the day before the seventh anniversary of Peter’s death, but she knows that she wouldn’t be able to. However, she still has a job, and she knows it simply won’t do to stay moping the entire night when she knows she could be getting her (like, thirtieth) golden ticket to fame.

The party itself is at Stark Tower, to raise funds for a charity Michelle doesn’t remember the name of. She purses her lips and considers (though not seriously) staying home, eating takeout and watching bad rom-coms. She calls her chauffeur instead.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

When Michelle Jones was twelve years old, she would sit by herself at a lunch table tucked in a corner.

What she had said when her teacher asked why, was that the A/C bothered her, and the corner was warmer. That, of course, was a complete lie. The real reason Michelle sat at what she had dubbed _ The Antisocial Paradise, _ was the people. Michelle didn’t really talk to a lot of people.

Her dad said that she was just shy, that making friends was scary, or simply that she was a smarter than average girl, and most kids just didn’t click with her. Her mom just thought she was crazy.

“What kind of child in her right mind,” Mrs Jones had argued multiple times, “doesn’t want friends?”

Michelle would simply roll her eyes at the comment and continue with her day, as her mother stubbornly insisted on berating her, and that was it. She didn’t think much of it, either – it was just the way that their days would progress.

“I don’t think Mrs Jones wanted children,” Michelle overheard a boy at school, a couple of years older than her tell his friend, after her mother had dropped her off with a scowl on her face and no goodbye.

The boy’s back was turned, and so he didn’t notice the glare Michelle threw his way. Reluctantly, she supposed it made sense.

Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

That day, when the bell rang and she headed towards the cafeteria, sitting at the lunch table she had begun to call hers, was Peter Parker. Michelle hadn’t ever had a full conversation with him – she hadn’t had a full conversation with 90% of the people at her school – but she didn’t dislike him, either. He was nice enough, she decided, and so she sat down with him (a couple of seats away, sure, but with him nonetheless).

He smiled his sweet, small smile, and that time, she’s sure she returned it. Peter turned his head back to glare at his food and continued to poke his green salad with his fork, as if it would turn to something more appealing if he did it for long enough. Soon enough, the bell was ringing again and, on their way to Spanish class, Peter smiled at her once more.

They didn’t talk. Not once.

Michelle thinks back to that day a lot. She doesn’t know why he didn’t say anything. She doesn’t know why she didn’t say anything, either.

Maybe he didn’t really like her.

God knows she didn’t either.

* * *

_ Note to self, _ Michelle thinks as she steps out the elevator, _ Stark does **not**__do anything by halves. _

The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling shine brightly, as the maybe ninety-something people below them chat idly. On one wall, there are hundreds of Post-Its with kids’ writing on them that Michelle doesn’t stop to read; on another, _ Cohen Children’s Medical Center Sends Their Love. _

Ah, so that’s the charity. Alright. She can work with that.

Soon enough, Michelle finds herself sitting at the bar, asking the bartender for a Shirley temple. She spots Norman Osborn in a corner, chatting with a man she doesn’t recognise, and she’s about to go and talk to them — because no matter how much she hates Osborn, Michelle’s here to do her job — but before she can move a muscle, Tony Stark walks into the room.

It’s almost comical how everyone stops to look at him, how all their eyes widen, just the tiniest bit, how all conversation stops, to pay attention to their host.

Stark looks fine, Michelle decides. Looking at his three piece suit, and the smile he’s wearing, if she didn’t know any better, she would guess that this is just another regular day for him, and not the day before the seventh anniversary of the worst day of his life. She does know better, though — has seen that smile enough times to know that it’s fake.

Stark crosses the room, and heads towards the bar, his signature smirk quickly forming on his face.

“Don’t mind me, I’m nobody,” he says, his voice fake nonchalant. His guests laugh, and slowly the lull of conversation fills the air again.

Stark, having reached the bar, sits down next to Michelle, and asks the bartender for a coke.

“Good evening, Miss Jones,” he says quietly, before sipping on his drink.

“Good evening to you too, Stark,” Michelle answers, nodding her head at him. He looks at her, and she thinks she sees a flash of pain cross his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, as if it had never even been there at all.

“How’re you doing?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Michelle takes a deep breath. Had it been any other day, had this party not been when she was preparing to mourn her best friend for the umpteenth time, she would have known what to say. Had it been any other day, she would have laughed, and said she was good, and teased Stark for being such a dad, telling him that she didn’t recognise him, that Morgan was changing him.

But it’s not any other day.

It’s not.

So instead, she gives him a sad smile.

“I’m... holding up,” she says. He nods.

“That’s good,” he comments, almost absently, looking like he wants to say something else.

Michelle sets her empty glass on the counter, calls over the bartender, and asks for a French martini. While waiting for her drink, she turns to raise an eyebrow at Stark expectantly.

Sighing, he takes a sip of his soda, and drags his eyes away from her.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks, after a moment of hesitation.

Michelle blinks. That... wasn’t what she was expecting.

She flounders, looking for something to say. The truth is, she doesn’t really have anything planned for tomorrow. She was leaning towards just staying home for the day, but now, she’s not so sure.

“I... don’t actually have plans. Why do you ask?” she says, because surely, Stark is trying to get somewhere with this conversation.

“I thought... maybe you’d want to do something. May and I are going out, to have lunch, I — maybe you’d like to... come with us.” He stumbles over his words, sounding nothing like the confident, nonchalant person the press associates him with. It’s almost funny, how much she relates to him. Their masks aren’t that different.

She studies him. His face suddenly looks tired, his smile long gone, as he stares into his glass, and her mouth moves without her permission.

“Sure,” she says, and Stark’s shoulders sag, just a little, as he nods. His smile returns, this time smaller, but more genuine.

“Alright,” he says, mostly to himself. “Okay, that’s good. I’ll, uh — I’ll tell May to text you. That alright?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Okay. Okay. Well, maybe —”

He’s interrupted by Norman Osborn walking over and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Stark!“ Osborn says, shark-like smirk firmly planted on his face. “There’s a couple of things I wanted to discuss with you, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m kinda in the middle of something here, so if _ you _wouldn’t mind I —”

This time, it’s Michelle who interrupts him. “It’s fine, Tony,” she says, waving a hand dismissively. “Go do whatever it is you need to do.”

Osborn nods at her. “Ms Jones, lovely to see you.”

“Can’t say the same for you, buddy,” she responds, standing up from her chair. She walks away from the two without a second glance, French martini long forgotten on the counter.

The rest of the night passes in a blur, and suddenly Michelle’s calling her driver again, more than ready to get home and collapse on her bed. On the ride home, a message from May lights up the screen of her phone, with a _ “Hi MJ!” _ a time, and the location of a traditional Italian restaurant called _ “Il Girasole” _ she’s never been in.

Michelle sighs, but, despite herself, she’s actually looking forward to lunch with May and Stark, if only for the purpose of not being alone tomorrow. When she gets under the covers and sets her alarm for 5:30am, she smiles.

It could be worse.

* * *

Turns out that Il Girasole has some _really_ fucking good pasta.

Michelle sits at a table, eating her Carbonara with Stark to her right and May to her left. So far, the day hasn’t been that bad, and lunch hasn’t been awkward or grim, like Michelle feared it would be. She’s... actually enjoying herself. The three of them take turns in sharing stories about Peter in between updates of their lives. It’s nice. Fun, even.

After they finish eating, Stark offers them to spend the rest of the day at the tower, May has other compromises, but Michelle says yes, because she doesn’t really have anything else to do, and spending the rest of the day alone doesn’t sound that appealing.

That was her first mistake.

They say goodbye to May and head towards the tower.

“Help yourself,” Stark says when they enter the penthouse, gesturing towards the white, L shaped couch in the living room.

“Ah, to be a billionaire,” Michelle smirks, and starts to walk inside.

That was her second mistake.

The first thing she registers is the mop of brown hair peeking from the back of the couch. 

“Uh, excuse me?” she asks cautiously. Stark turns around when he hears her voice, his eyes widening at the sight of the apparent stranger, a nanotech gauntlet forming around his hand.

The unknown person startles, as if just now hearing her, and slowly turns around —

Michelle almost faints. It can’t be. It can’t.

And yet, she’d recognise those brown eyes anywhere.

“Mr Stark, Ms Jones,” Peter Parker says, smiling apologetically. “I’m afraid I need some help.”


	2. how to mistakenly assume you have everything under control

Honestly, Michelle had been having a good day.

She hadn't overslept, she'd gotten out of the house instead of moping for the entire day, she'd spent time with May and Stark, and the pasta at Il Girasole was fucking amazing. But now - well,  _ now _ , she's standing in the middle of Stark's living room, staring at the face of a - of a  _ what _ ? What exactly is she looking at here? Because, to the extent of Michelle's knowledge, Peter Parker is  _ dead _ : has been dead for seven  _ years _ , and she  _ mourned him _ . She helped plan his funeral, for god's sake! So how the hell -

"I apologise for the inconvenience," Not-Peter is saying, interrupting her thoughts. "I understand it might be a bad time, but I'm in a bit of a situation, and I think you're the ones more equipped to deal with it."

And, with that, Michelle has had enough.

She's spent seven years mourning Peter Parker, seven years wondering if she could have done something to keep him alive: seven years of suffering, of trying to move on and not being able to,  _ seven years _ of waking up every morning and thinking that maybe she shouldn't even be awake in the first place. Seven years of wishing it was her, and not him. God, what she would have given to make it that way. And now this - whoever the fuck this is, passing for Peter in order to - to  _ what _ , exactly? Michelle doesn't know, but she's simply not having it.

"I'm sorry, who the hell are you?" she exclaims. 

"My name is Peter Parker," he says. Slowly, like it's obvious.

"Yeah, no, I'm sorry - Peter Parker is dead," she says. The words leave a bad taste in her mouth, and, even as she's saying them, a part of her doesn't want to believe it. Because Peter's standing right in front of her, right here and now, isn't he?

_ Would it really be that bad to just believe him? _ her mind whispers, and the thought comes so suddenly that she jumps a bit and shakes her head, as if she could get rid of it that way. It doesn't work, of course, and the question keeps bouncing around in her head, distracting her until Stark's voice startles her back to the present.

"Peter's been dead for  _ seven years _ ," he says, and she notices that he's looking more pale than he probably should.

Not-Peter looks like he's been caught off guard, his brows furrowing and his mouth twisting in a frown.

"I... I think we've got a lot to talk about. I've got many things to explain."

With that, he sits again, gesturing for the other two to do the same. Michelle, because her mind won't shut up, and she doesn't have anything better to do with her afternoon, does so.

Stark looks back and forth between her and Not-Peter, his eyes wide, his mouth half-open, and the Iron Man gauntlet still on his hand. After a moment of consideration, though, he too sits down, next to Michelle and in front of Not-Peter, the nanotech disappearing from around his hand.

Not-Peter takes a deep breath.

"It's a long story."

* * *

When Michelle Jones was thirteen years old, she developed a crush on one Peter Parker. 

Honestly, who could blame her? He was smart, and funny, and sweet, and, at least in her eyes, really, really cute. 

She decided then that she was going to befriend him. The thing was, she had no idea how to do that.

So she decided to try every single method she could think of.

On day number one, she tried to compliment him. When the time came, at lunch, she found him sitting at her table, just like every other day. What she meant to say was "You seem like a nice person,", but what came out instead was:

"I don't hate you."

Peter looked up from his food, a frown on his face.

"That's… good. I guess," he said, and stared at her, his nose twisted funny, his head slightly cocked to the side. 

She stared back at him for a second, then turned on her heel and walked out of the cafeteria, barely registering Peter shouting at her to wait.

So, that didn't work out.

On day number two, she decided to take a more direct approach. So in between classes, she talked to him.

"I want to be your friend," she said from behind his locker door.

Peter slammed the locker shut and turned to look at her, a small smile on his face.

"Sure," he said. "But that means we have to do friend stuff."

Michelle frowned.

"If you want friendship bracelets, Parker, I'm sure I can figure them out," she teased, and Peter laughed. Real, head-thrown-back, shoulders-shaking laughed. It made her feel bubbly inside, for some reason.

"Ok," he said, still smiling. "Well, if we're going to be friends, you might as well be friends with Ned, too -"

They were interrupted by the boy in question, who came running down the hall, a huge smile on his face, barely stopping in time to avoid hitting Peter, and seemingly not even noticing Michelle.

"Peter, guess what!" Ned all but screamed in his friend's ear.

Michelle decided that her job there was done, and walked away to her next class, smiling softly to herself.

She had a friend.

* * *

Not-Peter has a complicated story, and Michelle isn't sure she believes all of it.

He says that he is, indeed, the real Peter Parker, that he was taken by some evil organization or another, that his death was fake, that he doesn't remember much, that there are people after him, and Michelle just can't wrap her head around all of it.

He says things that only the real Peter would know, but she doesn't stop referring to him as 'Not-Peter' in her mind; because aliens and superheroes, that, she can believe, but her best friend coming back from the dead, saying that he was never even dead at all in the first place, is a whole ‘nother level of unbelievable. She just isn't ready to have faith in it. Not yet, at least.

So when Not-Peter is finished with his story, she stands up without a word, heads to the kitchen, and pours herself a glass of whiskey. The clock on the wall, the one that says '3:37', mocks her.

She doesn't pay it any mind.

It's going to be a long day.


	3. how to fuck up so spectacularly it cancels out every other mistake you've ever made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen. i know it's been 5 months. i can explain–  
*a sniper conveniently takes me out, because i cannot, in fact, explain*

Michelle Jones sits on Tony Stark's couch once again, nursing a glass of whiskey and staring at the two men in front of her.

"So," she says, "let me see if I got this right. You," she points at Not-Peter, "are Peter Parker."

"Yes." He answers, nodding.

"And you never actually died," Michelle continues, "but you got… kidnapped?" He nods again. "Right, you got kidnapped by, uh, who kidnapped you?"

"Right, um," Peter says, "it was this weapon dealing ring, they got ahold of some alien tech, and they needed someone enhanced to carry the merchandise out of the country. Long story short, they had a rivalry with this gang, and when _ they _ thought Spider-Man was working with the enemy, they wanted him dead."

"So all of these years you were… where, exactly?"

"I… it's complicated," he replies, "I was in and out of the country, spent some time in Argentina, a couple of months in Italy, and I think I was in France at some point, but they… they always found me."

Peter rubs the back of his neck, then clasps his hands together in front of him.

"How did you get here?" Tony asks.

"Long story." Peter says quickly. He swallows.

"It's okay, we don't have to talk about it," Michelle assures. "I think… you ought to get some rest."

Peter looks like he might protest, but after a few seconds of consideration, he nods and gets up.

"Tony can take you to a guest room, and we'll deal with your, uh, _ problem _ when you wake up, that sound good?"

"Yeah. Okay. Yeah – that sounds – yeah."

Michelle gives him a small smile.

"Alright then," Tony says, gesturing for Peter to follow him, "we better get going."

And with that, they disappear into the elevator, leaving Michelle alone with her thoughts.

* * *

The day in New York is hot and humid, and Ginger does _ not _ like hot and humid. Her partner had described this place like it was an absolute paradise, but Ginger fails to see how the rat infested alleys and foul smelling streets qualify as idyllic. She supposes it's not strange that he holds an idiotic love for the stupid state – after all, it _ is _his home – but she just finds it ridiculous.

The quicker she finds her partner, the quicker they get to leave New York and its stupidly infuriating people, so Ginger hails a yellow cab, feeling more like a tourist than a spy on a mission, and tells the driver her destination.

After almost half an hour of slowly moving through the afternoon traffic, facing a lot of dirty mouthed drivers on the way, they finally arrive. Ginger pays the taxi driver and stands on the sidewalk for a moment, staring up at the gigantic building in front of her. As she walks through the door, she suppresses a smile.

She's always had a knack for technological stuff. A flick of her wrist, and the metal detector at the entrance conveniently doesn't notice the carefully concealed throwing knives on her person.

This is the easiest mission she's had in a while – the building is completely run by an AI, go figure, so it shouldn't take long to get what she's looking for and get back out as if nothing had happened.

Ginger really, _ really _ loves Stark Tower.

* * *

It's getting tiring, Michelle thinks.

All the suspense, the superhero business, the people coming back from the dead – it's getting tiring. She wants to sleep.

As she throws herself face first on some random bed in a random guest room, Michelle can't help but figure if there really is a God, They ought to owe her at _ least _ eight dollars, a coupon for some ice cream and maybe an appointment with a therapist.

Michelle is tired.

For years she's missed Peter with all of her heart, every single thing a reminder of the friend who died too soon. At the supermarket she stares at the marmalade jars on the shelves and remembers his favourite flavour was peach – remembers the fond eyerolls as he insisted it was the best flavor, and she laughed and called him a heathen.

On Sunday nights she recalls he would always leave all his homework for the last second, and then pull an all-nighter trying to finish Spanish and Literature assignments at the same time.

There's a sale on Snickers at Delmar's, and her brain immediately reminds her he despised those.

And now he's here. And she doesn't know what to do.

She knows it's him, of course, she supposes after the initial shock she realized this is no less surprising than anything else in her life, but still – knowing it's actually him doesn't exactly give her any guidance on how to act.

Except –

An idea begins to grow in her mind. Something to keep her occupied while she figures out where she stands with Peter – and maybe even help her with that, too.

She's gotta admit, it's one of the greatest ideas she's had in a while.

Michelle sits up and grabs her computer.

"Hey FRIDAY?"

"Yes?"

"How long do you think it would take you to hack into the United States government's database?"

* * *

Tony lets out a heavy sigh as he hears a knock on the door of his office. He's not really in the mood for talking to anyone right now – not when the haunted look on Peter's face as he stood in front of the guest room's closed door is still burning behind his eyelids – but the nicer part of his brain takes over.

"Come in!" He calls.

The door opens, revealing a red-headed woman Tony had most certainly never seen before – someone who should _ not _have access to this floor.

He's on his feet and about to call a suit when the lady smiles and points a finger upwards. With a frown, he takes a quick glance to the ceiling – there's nothing there, of course – but by the time he looks back down the woman is gone.

Shaking his head, he wonders if he's going crazy.

"FRIDAY, did that happen?" He asks. FRIDAY doesn't reply.

"Uh, hello?"

_ FRIDAY doesn't reply. _

In his stupor – in his frantic checking of schematics from his watch – in his frustration – Tony fails to notice the white smoke pouring out of the air vents. In fact, he also fails to notice the neatly folded piece of paper that hadn't been on his desk a couple of seconds ago.

As he falls to the ground, hand still clinging to the edge of the desk, Tony mentally curses himself. It's not everyday someone manages to break into the Tower, and if the look on that lady's eyes is any indication, it's not going to be pretty.

His next thought is of Peter, but by then the darkness is already taking over.

Tony only hopes he hasn't gotten the kid back just to lose him again.

* * *

When Michelle Jones was fifteen years old, she found out that Peter Parker was Spider-Man.

It was easy – laughably so, she would say, because Peter may have been book smart, but he lacked – what you could call, ah, common sense. So looking back to the time when he jumped over the ten foot or so fence outside Midtown High, Michelle doesn't know how she hadn't seen it sooner.

She didn't actually confront him about it – didn't see any reason to – until the whole Stark plane debacle happened. She was sure the sight of Coney Island on fire would be permanently imprinted on her mind, right next to the knowledge that _ Peter was here _. Within the flames – within the rubble – inhaling the smoke.

_ Peter was here _.

She thinks that's when it finally hit her that her best friend was a superhero, which meant he was there for both the blood and the glory.

The day after the plane fell Peter wasn't at school, which meant Michelle was freaking out during World History. He wasn't back the next day, either. Or the day after that. Or the day after _ that _. And with every day that passed, Michelle's worry grew, until the anger she felt at first mellowed out, replaced by a level of terror she didn't know it was possible to feel.

During the weekend, she texted him. One time. Or like – twelve maybe. Which doesn't matter. Peter didn't answer.

So on Monday, when Michelle's mom dropped her off with the usual palpable irritation, and waiting for her at the gate was none other than Peter Parker, you may understand why her first thought was _ I'm going to punch this kid into next week _.

She didn't do that, though.

She didn't think at all when she acted, but suddenly her arms were around him and he smelled like vanilla and tears – and Michelle didn't know how to breathe anymore.

"Hi." Peter whispered into her shoulder.

He sounded like he _ was _ crying, and she was sure they were making a scene in front of everyone, but Michelle just _ couldn't _ bring herself to care. To have him in front of her, to have him whole – to have him _ alive _ – had her high on some kind of something she couldn't quite identify.

Relief, maybe? Regret?

_ It might be love _, she thought. She just didn't know what kind.

It was okay, though – they had time.

She didn't mind waiting a bit.

Even as the bell rang and they ran into the halls, her hands still sweaty but held tight in his – even as they reluctantly let go of each other to go different ways, as she looked at him like he was a miracle and he looked at her like she was his saviour, and they both _ knew _ , in that instant, that nothing would ever quite compare to this – even as she huffed out a laugh once he disappeared behind the door labeled _ Chemistry _, Michelle didn't mind waiting.

For Peter, she knew, she would wait a thousand years.

* * *

Peter doesn't think he'll ever learn from past mistakes.

"What do you _ want _, Ginger?"

In front of him, Ginger winks at him, pushing past him and into the room.

"Business," she says. "Don't worry babe – despite what Fury may tell you, I'm a gal of many talents, not just a _ mindless _killing machine."

Peter clenches his jaw and turns to look at her.

"And what exactly is your… _ business _?"

"A trade." Ginger says, like it's obvious. "Information that I have and you need."

"In exchange for _ what _?" Peter says, eyes narrowed.

Ginger smiles.

"You. Back with us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok im sorry guys life is just kicking my ass gang gang (ok so uh. don't know if any of y'all are like genuinely interested in this story and im lowkey higkey kinda considering dropping it, or at least not doing as much as i originally thought id do, so yeah uh. if u wanna see me stretch this out as much as i can let me know. like. please. leave a comment even if it's just to tell me i suck and that yeah i should drop it) that's it au revoir 💙🤍💞🤍


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